Seasons of Thanks
by IronAmerica
Summary: Thanksgiving rolls around for the heroes and villains of Palm City, bringing all the usual baggage with it.
1. Vince and Orwell

Hey! It's a new story for Thanksgiving! Apparently my sanity has completely abandoned me. (On that note, if anyone finds it, could they let me know?)

Chapter One: Vince and Orwell

Vince paced around the lair, chewing on his lower lip. Thanksgiving had arrived without him even noticing that so much time had passed. His partner, the vigilante thought, didn't really care. She never seemed to notice anything unless it involved dragging Fleming's name through the mud.

He sighed and flopped down on the couch that Ruvi had helped him drag in a week ago and closed his eyes. This was going to be a very long, miserable week, made worse by the fact that Thanksgiving didn't look like it was going to happen. This time last year, he'd been running all over town as Dana freaked out over not having a particular ingredient that she needed for…something.

The vigilante smiled at the memory. The smile evaporated as soon as he remembered that Trip had mentioned that he and Dana were spending Thanksgiving with Travis and _his_ family. He groaned and pulled one of the pillows over his face, wondering how hard it would be to asphyxiate himself.

"Stop moping Vince," Orwell said, drawing Vince out of his unhappy daze. Vince looked over at the blogger, who was busy with something on her blog. "Don't think I can't see that frown," she added, still not looking up.

Vince sat up, wondering if he had heard his partner correctly. "Orwell…are you actually concerned about me?"

Orwell looked at him over the top of her laptop, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. "Vince," she said in her usual exasperated tone, "If you keep moping, anyone who works for ARK will have a decent chance at actually killing you. And if a dead vigilante with your face shows up on a slab in the morgue, guess what happens to your family."

So much for that, Vince thought. He flopped back on the sofa with a groan and pulled the pillow back over his face.

Vince wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he woke up to something that actually smelled like real food. He sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Orwell had cleared everything off the Command Center (somehow), and had set up what looked like a miniature Thanksgiving dinner. There wasn't much in the way of variety, but at least it was hot and consisted of something that wasn't take-out or cold leftovers that never got hot no matter how many times they were nuked.

Orwell looked up from where she had been sitting and smiled. "Happy Thanksgiving, Vince," she said.

Vince grinned and got up to join his partner at the table.

- o – 0 – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Not holiday-ish enough? Drop a line and let me know!


	2. The Carnival

So, it's another chapter! Yay! Enjoy, folks.

- o – 0 – o -

Chapter Two: The Carnival

If nothing more was said about the Carnival of Crime, the last thing said would be that they really knew how to throw a party. While they weren't exactly reserved in their affections or in their very nature, they were a sight to behold during the holidays. Thanksgiving was, as a rule, their favorite holiday.

(What other holiday were they allowed to make their fellow carnies turn red with over-worded praise? Sure, they could have done that at Christmas, but hardly anyone stayed on the carnivals' grounds during Christmas.)

Everyone in the carnival liked different things about the holiday. A good number of them liked the food that _everyone_ had to chip in to help make, but the majority of them liked the homemade alcohol that Raia prepared especially for the event. There was nothing quite like it…

Max smiled as he watched his employees and compatriots scurry around the big top in an attempt to get everything ready for the feast later. It was truly a miraculous sight to behold, the old illusionist thought as he saw Rollo being surprisingly…chipper.

"Hi Max!"

The old magician looked up to see Raia looking down at him. She was holding two glasses of what he hoped was merely punch, but knew that she had probably spiked them with one of her concoctions. Oh well.

"Hello Ellen," he replied, reveling in the fact that, aside from Ruvi, he was the only one allowed to use her first name. "Is everything going well?" he added, looking concerned.

Raia shook her head, grinning. "Yup! Everything's fine. Well, except for the fact that Ruvi is swearing at one of the guys from the Flying Squadron for dropping a table on his foot." Max chuckled at that.

"He's fine, though," Raia replied. "Ruvi is just being a baby about everything, as usual." The illusionist shared a look with the animal trainer, and both of them laughed. Max finished his punch and threw the empty plastic cup into a recycling bin.

"I think everything is ready," Max said, seeing Popo waving at him from the other side of the big top. He offered Raia his arm and escorted her to where the tables had been set up for the dinner.

Max took his place at the head of the table and waited for everyone to sit down. After a few minutes the chattering died down. "Welcome friends," he said, grinning as he launched into his stage voice. "The carnival has survived another year, through the grace of whatever god or goddess has taken an interest in us."

There was a ripple of laughter in the temporary dining area at that. Max smiled at the carnival that was closer to him than blood family would ever be.

"So, my friends, enjoy. Bon apetit."

Max sat back down and watched as his carnival tucked into the feast they had all helped create. The chatter was soothing to his ears, and reminded him that everything was as it should be.

Happy Thanksgiving indeed.

- o – 0 – o -

So, what did you think? Anyone out of character? Good? Bad? Think the carnival should have been up to shenanigans instead? Drop a line and let me know!


	3. Dana and Trip

Chapter three is up! Happy holidays everyone!

- o – 0 – o -

Dana and Trip

If someone had asked Dana what she thought about spending Thanksgiving without Vince a year ago, she would have laughed at them. Vince had been shunted into the reserves after his last mission, and the military had never (prior to his untimely death) expressed any interest in reactivating him. He had always been home for Thanksgiving, or available via a webcam pilfered from one of his barracks-mates.

This year, though, she was caught up between her guilt over having fun without him, and Trip's betrayed looks. Travis, upon learning that Dana and Trip would most likely be eating Chinese take-out for their first Thanksgiving without Vince, had invited them over.

She had been pleasantly surprised by the invitation. Travis hadn't really been much more than her boss prior to this, but it was a nice gesture all the same. Trip, despite their altercation a month ago, seemed to be warming up to the man as well. (Her son's primary source of betrayal was the fact that he wasn't going to be hearing anything from the Cape—his imaginary friend that was, quite frankly, beginning to worry Dana—until Black Friday. Dana assured her son that his friend was probably spending Thanksgiving his with his family.)

"Hey Dana!"

Dana looked up as someone called her name. It was Travis's younger sister, bearing two glasses of cranberry juice. The young woman was heavily pregnant, and very cheerful.

"Hey Elise," Dana said, accepting the glass from her. The cranberry juice was exceptionally tart, but cold and it took her mind off of Trip's current melancholy. She sighed internally, seeing her son staring out one of the windows in the living room, completely ignoring Elise's four other children who were trying to convince him to play Monopoly.

"Don't worry," Elise said, seeing where Dana was looking. "He'll be okay eventually. It takes a different amount of time for everyone." She smiled, drawing a weak chuckle from Dana. Elise hooked her arm through Dana's and guided the older woman to the dining room, which had been decorated in a very definite fall theme.

"Thanks, Elise," Dana said, smiling weakly. The pregnant woman grinned back and refilled their glasses from the pitcher on the sideboard nearest to them.

"No problem."

Dana smiled, her guilt slowly disappearing. Through the arch that separated the den from the dining room, she saw Trip finally join Elise's kids at the coffee table where the game had been set up. Within minutes, he was smiling and cracking jokes with them like he had with his friends almost a year before. Dana had a feeling that this was going to go a long way to her son's recovery, and that was good.

"Dinner!" Mrs. Hall, Travis's elderly mother called from the kitchen, startling everyone. There was a general stampede from all over the cavernous house to reach the dining room.

Travis leaned over to Dana after they had sat down. "Happy Thanksgiving, Dana," he whispered quietly.

Dana smiled back, feeling better than she had in months.

Outside the window, a snowflake fell to the ground.

- o – 0 – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Should Dana have turned down Travis's invitation?


	4. Fleming

Chapter four is up! Holy crap! Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll!

- o – 0 – o -

Chapter four: Fleming

It was a little known fact that Peter Fleming never actually spent any time at the Thanksgiving Day charity ball his company hosted every year. After the function was opened to those who had been invited several months beforehand, he disappeared out a side door to where his chauffer was waiting with a non-descript blue Ford.

An even lesser known fact was that the billionaire spent the holiday at a cabin in Wolf Lake state park. Everyone who knew that he did so knew that it was the last place he had seen his wife alive, nearly ten years ago. Of those who knew that fact, only one was privy to the fact that Peter Fleming drank himself into a stupor every Thanksgiving as he sat staring at the only testament to the fact that Diana Jane Fleming had ever existed.

_Peter, you're moping again_.

"Shut up Chess," Fleming muttered under his breath, staring at the rose bush. There was a solitary bloom still clinging to life on one of the branches, only half-open. It looked like a promise of things to come.

_This really is depressing, you know_ Chess muttered in the back of the billionaire's mind. _Here you are, drinking yourself into a stupor over some dead broad._

Fleming's lip curled as Chess casually insulted Diana, but the maniac's commentary cut him off before he could retort.

_Really, all you need now is for Orwell or that caped nuisance to stumble across you. You're a pathetic drunken wreck right now._

The billionaire sighed, realizing that, as much as he hated his homicidal alter-ego, the…creature was right. He looked down at the bottle of forty-year-old single malt in his hands and sighed. He capped the bottle and tucked it into the satchel at his feet. With Chess's barbed encouragement, the billionaire left the tiny, dead garden and returned to the cabin.

_Good boy_, Chess murmured as Fleming put on a kettle to boil water for tea.

Fleming chose not to respond. As much as he hated to admit it, having _someone_ look out for him was…nice. "Happy Thanksgiving," Fleming muttered, tucking the bottle of single malt back into the cupboard, in favor of a mug of tea.

_Shut up and drink your tea._

- o – 0 – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Does Chess have an ulterior motive? Drop a line and let me know!


	5. Scales

Well, it's the last chapter folks. No epilogue here, sorry. *shrugs*

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

- o – 0 – o -

Chapter Five: Scales

The nurses at Rose Head had a yearly tradition. Every year, at exactly four in the afternoon, they had the security cameras in the long-term care ward and room 102 turned off for exactly one hour. New nurses were initiated every year, and then politely told to mind their own business until after six in the evening. Dominic Raoul may have been a bit creepy, but he paid well for his privacy.

The oldest nurse on the ward, Lee Anne, took the tea tray up to the old patient's room exactly fifteen minutes after the hour. Mister Raoul was sitting next to the old man, talking quietly. Lee smiled at him and left the tray on the table, leaving as quietly as she had come.

Whatever else the strange, creepy smuggler was, he was at least a family man.

- o -

Scales waited for the nurse to leave, before he poured himself a cup of tea. It had taken five years for them to realize that he preferred to prepare his own tea, but it was worth it. He smiled at the old man, who gazed back unseeingly.

"Anyways, da'," he rumbled, blowing on his tea to cool it. "Where was I?" Scales took a sip of his tea, trying to regain his lost train of thought. "Oh, righ'. Tha' todger, the Cape, is still runnin' aroun' me docks. You would'a 'ated 'im. Still, y' gotta admire th' man f'r 'is bollocks."

There was a low, thready chuckle from the old man firmly ensconced in the arm chair. Scales raised an eyebrow in surprise. In the fifteen years he'd visited the old man, he'd never seen a sign of life. Until today… Huh.

"The weather ou'side is good f'r a Thursday," Scales continued, shelving the idea that a light might have clicked on upstairs. "No' too bad, all t'ings considered. 'S nice weather, no' a cloud in the sky. It's sunny out too. If the nurses would let me, or t'ere were time la'er, or e'en now, I'd take y' out for a bit o' air an' sun…"

He smiled sadly, wishing for any indication that the old man was even there. Scales checked his watch a few minutes later and sighed. Another visit come to an end. He stood up and walked around the small table so he was next to the old man.

The smuggler bent over, and whispered something into the old man's ear. "I'll see you in hell, McClintock, me ol' son."

He gave the man a smile and a seemingly fond pat on the back, before he left with nary a backwards glance.

When he reached his car, he didn't start the ignition as usual. Fifteen years after stumbling across the old man passed out in an alley…and he'd gotten barely a reaction from him. Scales sighed, and wished—not for the first time—that he'd just left the bastard where he'd found him, face down in an alley.

Oh well. It was the least he could do to make sure the miserable old bastard stayed in one place. The drugs he'd slipped into McClintock's tea were going to keep him down for a while longer, or at least until the man's heart (or liver, more likely) gave out.

Happy Thanksgiving, he thought sardonically as he left the nursing home.

- o – 0 – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Kind of hoping Scales has a really good lawyer when the nurses discover what he's doing? Drop a line and let me know!


End file.
